About the Author: “James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet born in Akron, Ohio. After graduating from Baldwin Wallace University with degrees in Film Studies and Creative Writing, he moved to Los Angeles, where he worked in the film and television industry. Living in his Ford Fiesta near the ocean, James rediscovered his love for poetry, and has since been published in hundreds of literary magazines including Hobart, The Indianapolis Review, Rust+Moth, Whale Road Review, and Columbia Journal. His latest release, Count Seeds With Me, is available at the Ethel Zine & Micro-Press shop. Our Past Leaves (published in 2021) is available in the Kelsay Books Bookstore and on Amazon. His first chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory, is available through Writing Knights Press and Amazon. He founded the journal The Mantle Poetry in 2017.
In 2015, he embarked on a long road trip, working various food delivery jobs and online crowdsource gigs to stay afloat. Thirty-seven states in, he moved to Columbus, Ohio, where he dove headfirst into the city’s robust poetry community, winning the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Prize, sponsored by The Poetry Forum, the city’s longest running poetry series. He has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
In 2018, he moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and is once again working in the film industry as a member of IATSE Local 161.”
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Some Crimson Planet
When I am lonely,
it helps to not think
of the universe. I imagine
Earth buried in the darkest
cemetery, a headstone
with some space separating
it from the next.
I know there must be a
tenderness quotient
in the cosmos, a rose
on some crimson planet
blooming tall to wave
at me, its petals drifting
aimlessly through
a garden of light-
years. This distance
is more collective
than we know.
Watering a Flower
Meditation is mellifluous
melody ignoring the choo-
choo train inside my head,
but I have been growing
better, forth in time.
There are meadows
I will never enter – renter
of everything. Nothing I meet
in this life I keep. Honest. Lover
bearing forever strands
of hair? God, infinity is
so infinite when glimpsed.
Such the rose moon
grows on this
specific sky.
These poems are printed here courtesy of the author and should not be reprinted without permission.